


Hello

by Shadows_echoes



Series: A Series of One-shots [7]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: -as always, Angst, Gen, Other, a bad afternoon, mentions of grief, mentions of shock, prrevious character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-05 09:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16807723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadows_echoes/pseuds/Shadows_echoes
Summary: After witnessing Connor's death first-hand, the reader gets an unfortunate surprise





	Hello

**Author's Note:**

> This could be read as a sequel to Futile Wishes (which I think adds a nice bit of angst to it all), or it could just as easily be read on its own.

Thirium fades from the human sight within hours.

Not that it mattered. Connor’s blood was never leaving your skin, and no amount of time would ever change that.

The smears of blue had long since been scrubbed free from your hands, leaving your skin patchy and entirely raw. You didn’t bother washing your jeans -the knees soaked through after you collapsed, right after Connor did- or your jacket -the sleeves permanently stained after shifting his lifeless body onto your lap-. No… you didn’t bother cleaning them. Youburned them, and you watched with blurry eyes and rapt attention as the material degraded into _ash._

Thirium fades from the human sight within hours.

But it had been days and you could still _see_ it. You could still _feel_ it, like a heavy layer of invisible lead coating your skin and soul, weighing you down. A constant, burdensome reminder of events you could never alter, of a past you could never, ever change.

It had been _days_ and you’re still in shock, enveloped by a numbness that consumed you. But perhaps it was easier to feel anesthetized when your only other option was crushing, suffocating, _drowning_ guilt.

Maybe numbness was preferable.

Hank tried to comfort you as best he could, as did a few others. It was a concept made slightly more difficult by their own grief, and significantly harder by the fact you couldn’t hold anyone’s eyes for longer than half a second. You could hardly even stand to be around them- around _anyone_. There was just… too much guilt.

So you did what you could and kept going, burying your disorganized, chaotic mind in work.

And that’s when you first hear it.

And _when_ you hear it… _Oh god,_ how you _freeze_.

Every single muscle and tendon in your body, the blood in your veins and the air in your lungs… it all freezes. It all comes to a halt. Even the electrical impulses passing between the synapses in your brain slow down.

And your heart, the bloody, broken mess of bruised, torn muscle that it is, stops. Entirely.

Absolute dread and the epitome of hope come to a standstill inside of you. And in the moment -which feels like _years-_ it takes you to slowly turn around, there is only an _absence_ of feeling.

The muscles in your hand forget how to work. The cup of coffee you’re holding falls to the floor, shattering. The near-boiling liquid splatters across the floor and your calves, but you hardly feel it- hardly hear the cracking of ceramic on tile- hardly realize you even dropped something in the first place.

The muscles in your legs forget how to work too. However, your knees are locked in place and your bones are unyielding, forcing you to stand completely still and to _keep_ _looking_.

You couldn’t move if you wanted to.

And suddenly that barren battlefield which dread and hope had miserably squabbled over became occupied and overshadowed, but not with either of the warring factions.

“Hello. My name is-”

The rest of the words are lost on you.

There is only a ringing in your ears and in the place thoughts should resonate.

Both dread and hope cowered before the ultimate, all-consuming victor that was your _horror_.

Because it was him.

It’s Connor.

Your Connor.

It _is_ him.

You _want_ it to be him, so, _so_ desperately.

But the angles are all wrong.

Off _._

 _Sharper_.

Softness was a thing non-existent across the plains of his face, a foreign concept to the squareness of his jaw and the straightness of his brows. His hair was darker too, a few shades closer to black rather than light brown. And cold grey,

 _grey_ ,

_**g r e y** _

eyes that held nothing but _ice_ stared back at you.


End file.
